


The Wingless Dragon

by jerseydevious



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Relationship Study, Slavery, i barely even mention the body horror it's fine, it's dark but not OH GOD WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS dark, the joe chill of good writing declared me an enemy of the state and murdered me at quiznos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerseydevious/pseuds/jerseydevious
Summary: The Emperor is enjoying a show, and permits Vader to join him.





	The Wingless Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[Translation]The Wingless Dragon 无翼龙](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14634663) by [isaakfvkampfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaakfvkampfer/pseuds/isaakfvkampfer)



> Hi Star Wars. IT HAS BEEN SO LONG. OH MY GOD IT'S BEEN 5 CENTURIES. I MISSED YOU, WEIRD AS YOU ARE, STAR WARS.
> 
> So, here's the thing. While I've been tits-deep in DC Comics lately, it's sort of changed how I look at canon. In comics, the only way to do canon is to do whatever you want, fuck everyone else, right? Everyone's sorta got their own personal canon inside of their heads. Um, unfortunately, Star Wars does not have that kind of elastic canon, and I'm so used to doing whatever I want that I'm... still... doing whatever I want, here. 
> 
> But in celebration of Revenge of the Fifth, take a snippet about my favorite failure

Darth Vader’s presence among the civilians of the Empire was minimal. He himself had no legal citizenship, which his Master had argued was so Vader could be sent into neutral space without anyone arguing of an infraction on the Empire’s part—Vader had no knowledge of such protocol, because he had only ever been a ward of the Jedi Order, and even that process had been handled by the pompous Council, so it could have even been one of his Master’s rare truths. Vader’s medical bills were folded into the Empire’s military expenses, and the castle rooted in the black banks of Mustafar had been a gift from his Master, and the one possession that was genuinely his had been simple to attain. (He’d marched in and threatened the curator’s life, and had left with an antique Nubian diplomacy ship. He  _ could _ be persuasive.) He needed nothing else. A citizenship and a bank account were a moot point, because Vader did not enact his duties for credits, only the glory of the Dark Side.

 

It was hard for a being that did not technically exist to fraternize with the public, and Vader was so useless at it that his Master had no reason to construct something likely inane and convoluted to justify his presence. His Master, however, nursed an ever-changing cluster of aristocrats, each one more crusted with unique jewels and expensive animal hides and precious metals than the last. Vader failed to understand why Palpatine entertained such pathetic fools, each one blinded not by power but by banal monetary gain. It was the endemic curse of this galaxy, he supposed—credits.

 

But the spheres of his Master’s life—his upper-crust life as Sheev Palpatine, and his dedication to the Empire as Darth Sidious—remained perfectly separate. Vader was permitted access to only the one, and that was how he preferred it. And then his Master got an inclination, and that inclination turned into a demand, and Vader always met his Master’s demands, albeit begrudgingly. 

 

“It is like old times, my friend,” his Master rasped. His voice was muffled from beneath the sea-green shroud, carved from the hide of the endangered Nubian whale, and stitched with golden thread to mimic the creature’s magnificent head. It was prized by game hunters across the galaxy, and as such, nearly extinct. Quite a few apex predators had been rendered nearly extinct by such practices—greater krayt dragons, for one, from his own vile home planet. “It has been too long. We should rejoice in the peace of our benevolent Empire.”

 

_ My friend,  _ his Master called him. He could not very well say, “my apprentice,” in public. The public knew nothing of the Sith, and this was for the best. 

 

“I know of your… shortcomings,” his Master continued. Beneath the shroud, and the customary roar of Coruscant, and the more specific roar of the landing dock, his Master’s voice was inaudible to the human ear. Vader’s ears had been replaced by metal, so it was of no consequence. “So I will lead.”

 

Coruscant’s artificial sunlight glinted off of durasteel; eons ago, Coruscant had been a planet of rainforests. Tropical rainforests wrapped around thousands of miles at the planet’s equator, and then temperate rainforests held at its poles. It had been the most biodiverse planet in its solar system, possibly the most biodiverse known planet; since then, it had become housing for the exorbitantly wealthy. Where it would have rained a thousand gallons over a galactic standard year over just this corner of Coruscant, it was now ruthlessly sunny, every single day, by demand of Weather Control. Coruscant’s sky reflected its citizens: false.

 

“As you wish, my Master,” Vader responded, dully. The vocoder would never be quieter than a thunderous boom. 

 

An apprentice, in public, he could not be—but a Master, the Emperor could. His Master went into the reception hall with his arms raised in greeting, his cloak of dragonhide flaring behind him. A round of applause crowded the room of overly-dressed imbeciles, and then immediately quieted when Vader followed his Master’s step. He felt his Master’s amusement through the Force, but more distinctly, his pleasure; fear is what Vader had been designed for. 

 

His Master continued without missing a beat. “Today, we celebrate the continued peace and prosperity of our great and noble Empire,” he said. “Today, I take a moment from my laborious endeavors to keep us safe for a night of relaxation and rest. May the games begin!”  
  
  


A cheer flew into the air. It refused to die, and melted into simpering laughter and tedious conversation. His Master milled about, flanked by admirers. He did not bid Vader to join, and so Vader did not; he rooted himself to a spot by the Bantu ivory wall, and brought the Dark Side close to him like a shield, deliberately ignoring the looks or thoughts or feelings sent callously to him by witless onlookers. Cold flames licked at his shoulders, his hands, his teeth, and he fed them with daydreams of clawing the throats of every pitiful trailing gown and robe heavy with decadence. Even that, after a while, grew tiring; his fantasies of beautiful violence tended to dissipate all too quickly, these days, into ash. Gray apathy was not as kind a friend as the fires of the Dark Side, and it was a state his Master actively scorned. But the worst that could be inflicted upon him was pain, and pain was an even older friend than the Dark. 

 

He dared to stretch his senses to follow his Master’s conversation—this, he would not need the Force for, just his implanted hearing aids.

 

“... hard, indeed, some days,” his Master said. “But I prosper.”

 

Some croons of sympathy. New blood; his Master trapped them with their sympathies to his injuries, and lovingly drew them in with promises of untold riches, before they died gruesomely. Ever since the Yvev family had committed mass suicide, leaving a power vacuum that sent a small moon descending into anarchy, Vader had theorized his Master enjoyed manipulating easy prey to their deaths. Their sedentary, lavish lifestyles made them weak—what did they know of suffering, of starvation, of agony? What did they know of the night before a slave auction, their mother straining a hand through the durasteel bars to barely brush their hand with the tips of her tough fingers, whispering the promises of freedom—it was all terribly complicated. Vader would rather choke them and be done with it. But his Master did not bid Vader to kill them, and so he did not. 

 

The painful occasion—and he would have called it torture, had he not been bitterly acquainted with such a thing—ended soon enough, and his Master called for him with the Force. Vader followed, and was given a wide berth by wide-eyed weaklings. _Don’t—death—is that?—scared,_ the Force read to him. Doughy little pests, they were.

 

“My friend,” his Master greeted him. He wrapped a hand over Vader’s upper arm, just where the abused flesh was, and Vader’s skin crawled as if covered in flies. “We will sit in our reserved box, this way.”

 

Being alone with his Master was no relief—in fact, Vader pulled the Dark Side to him as armor, focusing on the pain in the stumps of his legs from all the standing, the blisters from the leather, the persistent and constant ache of his spine where the metal was laid—but it was familiar. And he hated those detestable smirks. 

 

His Master led him to the box, and there was a vague sense of surprise from the attendee when his Master only provided a single ticket. Vader caught the snippet of the twi’lek’s unsheltered thoughts _ —bodyguard, slave?— _ and before he could control himself, the twi’lek’s head whipped to the side, and he slumped to the ground, dead. 

 

“Hasty, are we,” his Master hummed. He stepped over the corpse and settled into his plush chair, radiating honey-sweet amusement so thick and cloying Vader could scarcely taste it. Closest he’d come to tasting anything other than ash in years.

 

Vader stood behind his. He doubted it would hold his weight, if it could fit him around his armor. Sitting, in his state, was rarely deemed necessary; if they weren’t bearing weight, his leg prosthetics tended to lock up. He figured it must have been intentional. Something about encouraging good work ethic, perhaps. 

 

“Our respite will start momentarily, old friend,” his Master said.

 

“As you say, Master.”

 

A memory was dragged, howling, leaving bloody scars, to the forefront of his mind—his mother, clothes stripped off, being beaten with an electric bantha prod. The memory was soft at the edges—he’d been young, very young, this had been when they were Hutt property, when his mother—the screaming. Endless. Running forward on unsteady legs, taking a blow from the prod to his chest. Blackness. His mother, her face—her face intact, Hutt slaves were always expected to have beautiful faces—streaked with tears and sweat, stroking his hair, begging him to be alive. The memory dialed backward, again and again, until he could only hear her screams and feel the pain of the electricity crawling over his skin. Again. Again. Again. Endless.

 

_ “My _ Master,” Vader corrected. The vocoder forced his thready voice into a flat baritone. 

 

His Master did not often choose such a method for punishment—it required concentrated use of the Dark Side, malevolence in excess. It required a strong connection, and proximity, also. The main reason his Master did not utilize it more was because it could cause damage to the victim’s memory; and without a memory, his Master had nothing to use against him but torture and death. Neither were of great consequence to him. 

 

“Our festivities have begun,” his Master said.

 

For the first time, Vader paid attention to the ring; they were perched above a coliseum of shrieking spectators, all huddled around a dirt-floor ring. The why became soon apparent: a rathtar howled in agony and flung itself out of a durasteel entry on one end of the ring, a nexu on the other. The two predators circled each other warily, snarling and snapping, until a stray rathtar tentacle caught the nexu’s furry flank and the struggle ignited. 

 

The nexu wrapped familiar (dangerous line of thought) fangs around the rathtar’s bulbous body, and dragged it halfway across the ring, leaving a dark smear of blood behind. A pair of tentacles cupped an eye and ripped it out, to the adulation of the crowd. Eventually, the rathtar wrapped slimy tentacles around the nexu’s fat neck, coiling with leashed power. The crowd cheered as the nexu took a few last, aching breaths, and Vader quietly thanked the rathtar for mindlessly eliminating the monster that had dredged up ancient memories of Geonosis. Detestable beasts, nexu. 

 

The hours of gore passed in a blur—whatever vague satisfaction the nexu’s death had given him, it slipped away into the same gray fog. This spectacle was a waste of time and money, but he stood and bore it all the same. The reason his Master would have his time occupied by something so so infantile, so simplistic as this eluded him; there was some lesson here to be learned. Perhaps it was of Vader’s poor performance of late, something to invigorate him into reaching further into the Dark. Somehow, he doubted it. 

 

Then the announcer bellowed:

 

_ “Now, for our final thrilling match—a clash of giants—the goffbird of Naboo and the greater krayt dragon of Tatooine!”  _

 

Vader jolted. 

 

“An interesting pairing,” his Master said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. The amusement returned, swirling about him, prodding at old wounds to see if they would leak stinking pus.

 

“Goffbirds are gentle creatures,” Vader thundered. “This match is unethical.”

 

His Master only laughed, and laughed, and laughed. 

 

The goffbird of Naboo was a curious looking animal, with a small head and a toothy bill, but a pudgy stomach and massive, massive wings the size of a large fighter, easily wider than the span of a TIE. Its wrinkly skin, dusted with purple scales, made it unappealing—which was unnatural, of Naboo’s fauna and flora—but the Nubians revered them anyway, believing them to—believing them to be—

 

The greater krayt dragon needed no electric prod to storm out of the gate. It scrambled out on ten legs, tail whipping behind it, parting gargantuan jaws in a planet-shaking call—it ducked its head up and down, cawing repeatedly. A challenge. Hearing that in the desert meant certain death. Canyon krayt dragons could be scared away with fire and will, but a greater krayt dragon was known to be a being entirely separate from fear; it walked the wastelands bellowing its challenge, it walked the wastelands and tore the sarlaccs, old as time, from the ground. Legends, stories his mother had told him in a whisper, said that the slavers had stolen the greater krayt dragon’s wings, and buried them beneath the sands. When the greater krayts came back for their wings, they would free the slaves. 

 

Skywalkers had been born slaves as long as his mother could remember, as long as her mother could remember, as long as her mother’s mother could remember. It was the endemic curse of their blood—chains. As a child, the number of greater krayts had dwindled, and he had felt excitement, had felt joy, wondering if this meant the slaves were being freed one by one. Soon enough, their own dragon would come and swallow the slavers and take his wings back. Skywalkers had been born slaves for as long as his mother could remember, as long as her mother could remember, as long as her mother’s mother could remember, but they had passed the hope that their children would be free down with them. 

 

The goffbird was caught in the dragon’s screaming jaws, and swallowed whole. On Naboo, the goffbirds had been believed to be the saints of death that bore souls from the land of the living to the land of the dead. Without them, a soul would have no peace, and would wander the world between. Death and life eternal, but not a drop of peace to be had. 

 

“That was disappointing,” his Master said. “I think I would like more of a… show.”

  
  
The krayt dragon froze, and a keen broke from its long and powerful throat, and the keen turned into a scream. It collapsed and writhed on the ground, tail lashing, each of its legs clawing the air and begging, pleading for relief—begging, pleading for her son not to be dead—begging, pleading for his wife not to be dead—and not a drop of peace for each.

 

The dragon slumped, lay twitching, and then grew still. The hungry hordes lining the seats awaiting the spill of blood were, for once, quiet.

 

“A beautiful animal, really,” his Master said. “I paid J’gunn Byr and his team to capture it, of course. It was hard to find, considering it was the last one, so it cost quite a great deal.”

 

The eyes of the wingless dragon stared back up at Vader, and abandoned him. Through the Force, he felt his Master laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> There's this tweet Tom King made jokingly about writing a Captain Marvel book, and it was, "The magic word is death... death... death..." and that was the mood I was sort of channeling for Vader, here. I think I've forgotten how to write him entirely. 
> 
> Palpatine's such a dick, y'all. He forced an entire species into extinction to prove a point. Leave any questions, comments, or concerns below ;) thanks for reading! Jesus I have missed Star Wars


End file.
